Abundance and the Grave
by Annie Get Your Board
Summary: Trouble always turns up when you least expect it. The children of minor gods must fight to save the world - whether they want to or not. All OCs. Reviews and CC more than welcome.
1. Get Back to Where You Once Belonged

_A/N: I've only seen the movie, so forgive any inconsistencies with the book. Amazon will be bringing it to my doorstep shortly. I am, however, a Greek mythology nut so if the books are reasonably accurate then this story ought to be too. The idea is that all of this takes place in the 1950's, well before the rules were in place. Anyway, please enjoy and give me lots of juicy reviews!_

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To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

- from Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

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It had been a long time since I'd been to the house on Circadian street. I don't know if I'd been avoiding it on purpose, or if circumstances had just led me away. Maybe it was a little bit of both. Whenever it came to family matters, shall we say, I usually found an excuse not to be involved. The truth of the matter is that I was rarely missed. And that was just how I wanted it. If I'd thought that my absence would have made me conspicuous in any way, then I would have been present.

It was my sincere wish to go through life completely unobserved.

The house was pretty much the same as I had remembered it. The exterior cold, austere and intimidating. The architecture little more than white Doric columns and classical lines. It was one of the biggest, least subtle houses that I've ever seen. I suppose that's why it was so successful at hiding us. Who would look for demigods in a giant nouveau temple? Pretty crafty, if you ask me. It sat on the top of a hill that was covered in perfectly manicured, vibrant grass. The smell was amazing. Like fresh green summer. I wish that I could bottle that smell and keep it with me forever.

I parked my car, a Hudson Hornet I'd bought in '56, on the little gravel driveway that looped around a garden fountain. The fountain was supposed to be lucky, but nobody ever believed it was. Probably because how most of us looked at our lives. If you were like me, you considered yourself and your parentage to be the master stroke of bad fortune. If you were more optimistic than me, you would still have something to tie your luck to. It wasn't _just_ a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk, it was a gift from the gods! People with that going for them don't bother tossing pennies into fountains.

Before I'd finished getting out of my car, the front door of the house and open and a familiar figure was filling it's frame. He was tall and lean, dressed in the kind of suit you'd see on Frank Sinatra with his tie clipped to his shirt. His hands decided to rest in his pockets as he leaned against the door and watched me walk towards him. I've never been surprised when people have told me that he reminded them of a housecat, with his wavy brown hair, languid posture and dangerously feline eyes. The way he rolled his head a little before smiling and nodding at me made him look like he was made of liquid. It had been a few years since I'd seen him, and his face had become sharper. His jaw was tighter.

"Nice to see you, Carol."

"Montrose. I heard you were dead." It was a cold thing to say, but I said it anyway.

"Not yet. But close." He said with a shrug as he straightened out, "How have you been?"

"Dorothy called me. She here?"

"You're not being very friendly, honey," Montrose raised an eyebrow at me, "Yeah, Dorothy's here. She's in the library with Ezra. We've been waiting for you."

"Ezra? What's Ezra doing here?"

"Why don't you be sociable for a change and come and find out? Or if you'd prefer, we can spend the afternoon playing twenty questions at the front door."

I sighed a little angrily as I walked into the foyer. It was a tall, chilly room with spotless white marble floors and a crystal chandelier. All along the walls were mosaics of the Heroes in battle. Theseus and the Minotaur, Odysseus and Polyphemus, Achilles at the walls of Troy, Heracles and Echidna and so on. I always thought it made the whole house feel like a trophy room. Most of my contemporaries, Montrose included, viewed it as a not-so-subtle hint regarding expectations. But that struck me as slightly erroneous. After all, not all heroes were demigods and vice versa.

Montrose began to stroll through the hall, his hands still in his pockets. I didn't know how I felt about seeing him again. He seemed to have changed a lot, but in little ways. Strange ways. On the surface he was the same as ever, but the way he moved, the look in his eyes, the hollow quality in his voice - it was like looking at a glass of champagne after all of the bubbles had popped. Once upon a time, I'd been in love with him. That first summer at camp, I would steal glimpses of him whenever I could. He never noticed me, of course. I could have been on fire and he wouldn't have looked my way. At some point during the three years we spent seeing each other every day, he figured out my name. By the time we parted ways, I'd figured out that he was going to spend all of his spare time with girls who giggled and didn't know any big words. And try as I might, I simply could not become one of those girls. As time passed, I'd ask mutual friends about him. The news was bittersweet.

"It's strange to be back here, don't you think?" He asked distantly. So distantly that I didn't answer at first, I thought maybe he was talking to himself until he turned around to look at me.

"Yes. Very strange."

The whole point of the house was to be a safe haven for the children of Chthonic deities. The gateway to Olympus is in New York and the gateway to the Underworld is in Los Angeles. Camp Half-Blood is up by the Adirondacks and the house on Circadian is in a little town in California called Santa Rosa. Both welcomed children of all gods, but there were certain preferences at the time. Not to mention geographical convenience. I'd been told that during the interwar years, the house had been pretty lively. I don't know for sure. It was certainly big enough to suit a crowd, and I'd seen it host one.

The second World War was different for us. The surface combat, the parts that history remembers, was awful. Mortals, immortals, gods and demigods were all affected. Even those of us who were born towards the end or after the fighting had stopped. And even when the guns were put down, there was still more going on in the world that you can't see. A nasty game of blame, power struggles and in-fighting. It lasted a long, long time. That's why I was fifteen before I even heard about the camp in New York, and that same summer I was shipped off to it. But the gods are fickle, and not all of them like to forget their grudges. There was a lot of tension. People started to notice that more blood than necessary was being spilt in training, the games became too intense and were often postponed or called off when Chiron thought it best. It all built and built and built, and it felt like the whole thing was going to erupt like a volcano. We had to get out of that place.

About thirty of us left during the night. It was planned very quietly, I remember getting a note one afternoon that simply said the day of the week and the time. My job was simple and mostly a very strange brand of counter-spying. For about a week before we took off, I made certain that nobody was going to betray us; that nobody in the camp except those of us leaving knew what our plans were. I have a unique skill set that benefits that kind of work. Anyway, we split into small groups of no more than five and no fewer than two. Each group was responsible for taking care of its own and making their way to Santa Rosa. It was a daunting task, having to get clear across the entire country without bringing attention to yourself. It would have been worse if we'd stayed together. A group that size would be so easy to spot. I rendezvoused with Montrose and two other kids on the beach. We were part of the team that was going to sail across the lake. It took us a long time to get to California, but on the way we didn't have any trouble.

When we got to the house, we were one of the first groups to arrive. Third or fourth, I can't remember. All of us who left were the children of minor gods, and so we weren't missed as much as we could have been. There are rules about the house similar to those that apply to the camp. Barriers and agreements. Once you made it there, your business became your own. As the months trickled past, people left. At first there were arguments with godly parents, and sometimes messengers. We saw an awful lot of Hermes for awhile. Not in the social sense, mind you. It was just that between being the psychopomp and the celestial postman he found his way over quite a few times. Anyway, once you settled the fact that your destiny was your own, you generally went out into the world and found a job and an apartment and left the house behind. I know I sure did. I didn't even wait for permission.

"Listen," Montrose said quietly as we stood outside the library doors, "If you want to back out it's fine by me. I'll stick up for your decision. I mean, I'll understand if you say no."

"Say no to what?" I asked.

His eyes darted away for a second, and I figured that he was deciding whether or not to tell me. But in the end, he just opened the library door and let me walk in.

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_A/N: Okay, so that's chapter one! Like it? Yes, no, maybe so? Feel free to drop me a line with any thoughts, ideas or criticisms. The fast way is to push the little button down here that says Review. So what are you waiting for?_


	2. It's Not What We Would Choose To Do

_A/N: No news is good news, I guess. I figured I'd do another chapter and see if anyone cared. Woe is me and heavy sighs. Feel free to take pity on me and leave a review. _

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The library was like the ones you see in big Hollywood films. There were heavy alabaster bookshelves built into the walls, lined with endless volumes bound in blue leather. The room was bright and happy, thanks to the sunlight pouring in from two enormous windows that faced the back lawn. You could see more rolling green, the hedge maze and a bunch of those fancy bushes people trim like poodles. In front of the windows were a couple of chairs that looked like they were made of carved ivory with bright blue cushions. That blue that seems to be between the colour of the sky and the colour of the Mediterranean sea. The one they paint on doors in Greece and only gets more beautiful as it fades. But the cushions - which could have been a century old for all I knew - were fresh and vibrant. Sitting in the chairs, looking a little panic-stricken, were Dorothy and Ezra.

I've only met a handful of girls who came close to Dorothy in the looks department, and I myself fell fairly short of her mark. She had glossy dark hair that was pinned back from her face, and bright glittery eyes that seemed too sad for a girl with her looks. Her mouth was small but had a nice shape, and she favoured ruby red lipstick. There was something delicate about her, with the tragic elegance of a ballerina. But, contrary to what you would expect, the first thing everyone felt whenever they saw Dorothy was a kind of flinching revulsion.

Her mother, I seem to recall, had worked in the alterations department of a large New York department store. Macy's more than likely. And her father had been Phobos, the shield-piercer and godly embodiment of fear and horror. Phobos himself could manipulate his nature, and as such make a mortal woman fall in love long enough to bear him a child. Dorothy wasn't so lucky. Lovely as she was, she naturally activated the human response to certain venomous animals. Specifically, arachnids. Looking at her caused a deep, uncontrollable and instinctive chill to run down the spine. Her presence caused the hair to rise on the back of your neck. She couldn't turn it off.

Once you got to know her, she was a good friend to have. I always did my best to fight the instinct to avoid her, and to not show too much discomfort. Still, I could never stand to be very near to her.

Sitting to her left was the boy of sixteen who was Ezra. The last time I saw him, he was an eleven year old kid hiding in a kitchen cupboard. He hadn't changed much. His hair was a shade of blond so pale it could have passed for white, and his skin wasn't a lot darker. His eyes were a remarkable shade of grey, as though they'd once been blue but someone had come along and drained out all of their colour. They were big, round eyes that made him look a little surprised all of the time. It didn't help that he wore a pair of those square, black framed glasses. He gave me a weak sort of smile when I walked in the room.

After the big set-up Montrose had given me, I was surprised to find just the two of them in there. I was half expecting Zeus and maybe some FBI agents. Something exciting.

I walked into the room and didn't bother wiping the confusion off of my face. Montrose decided to slink in behind me and lean against one of the bookcases next to a large and austere fireplace. He liked to lean against things. He had a knack for it.

"I'm sorry I was so vague on the phone," Dorothy said. Her voice had a soft, powdery quality like a whisper. "You remember Ezra, don't you?"

I told her that I did.

"Carol, I know you may hate me for this, but we need a favour. I couldn't think of anyone else." She looked me in the eye. Most people found it off-putting when she pulled a move like that, but there was enough pleading in her face to keep me steady.

"Never mind the melodramatics, just tell me what's going on. I feel like I'm in the dark, and I don't like it very much." I said, glancing at Ezra and then Montrose.

Montrose had produced a cigarette and was in the process of lighting it. He gave me a steady gaze over the flame of his match. It almost made me worry.

"I don't suppose you've been keeping up on any gossip?" Dorothy asked.

"Depends on what gossip."

"Do you remember a son of Ares called Pavlos Yepanchin? He was a few years older than me, so he may have been before your time."

"I never met him, but I remember a story about him blowing up a rowboat with some Chinese fireworks."

"That was Pavlos alright. Never the brightest bulb in the box and I'm afraid that not much has changed," She sighed and shook her head, "He went and rallied up his brothers and declared war upon the children of Athena. Of course it's none of our business, and so far their tactics have included getting most of them blacklisted as communist sympathizers. But it took up a lot of attention, and of course with the distractions in Asia as well…"

"Nobody's minding the store." Montrose offered from inside a thin cloud of acrid smelling smoke.

"What's that got to do with any of us? Why do you need me?"

"Um, I kind of messed up. Pretty badly." Ezra said in a shy voice, looking at a spot on the floor. He looked pretty distressed, so I decided that I ought to soften up a bit. We all made mistakes, and he was part of our little family of runaways. The youngest part, no less.

I found my way over to a wingback armchair in the corner of the room closest to the door. It had the musty smell furniture gets when nobody uses it for a couple of years. I wondered if the house had been empty up until then, it certainly had an air of abandonment about it, and there weren't any sounds or signs that unseen people were about.

"Well sure," I said, "All of us mess up badly at least once. Montrose likes to think he's got the monopoly on stupid mistakes, so it's important that we try to muscle him out."

"Thank you for that." Montrose mumbled.

"What's the trouble? How can I help?"

Ezra glanced nervously at Dorothy then hung his head. She decided to do his talking:

"Ezra was charged with guarding the crown of Pandia. It was stolen."

"So? Things get stolen all of the time with those nuts. It'll turn up." I said as cheerfully as I could.

"Well, that's not the actual problem," Dorothy said carefully, "The crown grants its wearer the powers of Pandia, the full brightness of the moon. It gives one a sort of dominion over the moon, comparable almost with Artemis or Selene herself."

Selene was Ezra's mother. He saw more of her in a week than I'd seen of my father in my lifetime. Then again, with fifty daughters to aid you in your duties you probably had more spare time than most. Which, naturally, begged a certain question.

"Why is this your problem, Ezra? Can't your mother do something about it for you?"

"My mother is missing."

The whole room seemed to freeze. For a few moments, the only thing that moved was Montrose's cigarette smoke curling through the air. The only sound was the distant chirping of fat little birds in the back garden. What he had said, that Selene was missing, it was impossible. Just impossible.

"How can she be missing? That makes no sense." I looked to all of the faces in the room, but none of them offered any quick answers.

"She - and my sisters - they disappeared a week ago. After the crown was stolen. I… I don't…"

"Well then what the hell is happening with the moon? How's it staying lit? Are you telling me that nobody has noticed that Selene just isn't there anymore?"

"Please, Carol, try to understand," Dorothy seemed to be getting a little impatient with me, "Nobody is looking. It's like they're all at the theatre while their houses are being robbed. The crown of Pandia contains enough light to keep the moon glowing for a few months. But, ah, I don't know how to put this without sounding a little crazy…"

"Really, Dorothy? You're worried about something sounding crazy right now?" Montrose chuckled. He had a point.

"The moon, it seems to be…" She took a deep, bracing breath, "Falling."

"The moon is falling." I repeated carefully.

"Yes." All three of them said at the same time.

"You're right, that does sound crazy," I stood up and smoothed the front of my dress, "I think this is where I get off of this train. Thanks for telephoning, it's always nice to see you all. Good luck."

"What?!" Ezra jumped up from his seat. There was a fire in his eyes and his fists were balled up by his sides. His tie had gone crooked and his face was turning an angry shade of pink.

"Look, kid, I like you and I like Dorothy and I used to like Montrose," I put my hands out in front of myself, "But there are certain incidents in which I do not involve myself. Big events. The ones that draw attention. The ones you could reasonably call a quest. I just don't want any part."

"People say a lot of things about you, Carol," Ezra let off some steam while he pulled his fists even tighter, "They say that you're a coward and a cold number. They say you don't care about anything but how to make yourself more useless. But I didn't believe them. Not until right now."

I don't know, maybe he said it to hurt me for putting a dent in his faith in other people. Maybe he was trying to get me to rethink my selfish ways, but it didn't work. I had a soft spot for Ezra, but I didn't really mind if he thought unpleasant things about me. Especially ones that were not altogether untrue.

"Oh damn it, Carol," Dorothy rolled her eyes, "If the moon crashes into the earth you will die. And I will die and so will everybody else. Then it won't matter if anybody pays attention to you because we'll all be swimming in the River Styx. And, quite frankly, that's the most likely scenario. If you help, and by some small, small chance we succeed then we will live. And people might want to thank you. But I guess we can cross that bridge when we come to it, alright?"

"Fine," I grumbled, "What did you want me to do?"


	3. All the Greenery is Comin' Down

_A/N: Finally! A review! And a positive, encouraging one at that! So here's a shout-out to lillyterese for taking the time to read this story and for saying such nice things. Anyway, please enjoy!_

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By the time I got back out to the Hornet, the sun was disappearing over the other side of the hill. There was a biting breeze in the air that rustled the leaves on the trees. Montrose walked with me to the car and opened the driver side door for me. He rested a hand on the roof and leaned in the window to talk to me a little.

"Thanks, I really do appreciate it." He said.

"Can the theatrics, would you? It's not that big of a deal. I'll call you tomorrow morning if I find anything out, alright?" I didn't bother looking at him, I just sort of stared at the steering wheel. He was close enough that I could smell the smoke about him, and the scent of minty soap on his skin. It was the kind of familiar smell that trapped you in your memories for a little while, so I tried not to think about it. A piece of me still ached to reach out and touch him.

"Alright." He said with a shrug.

"Are you staying here? Is the number the same?"

"Yes and yes."

"Fine." I turned the key in the ignition and the engine let out a rumble. Montrose patted the roof a couple of times and stood back as I pulled out of the driveway. I took a deep breath and didn't look at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. It was a bit of a struggle.

The drive back to San Francisco would take a little over an hour, a winding trip through low vineyards and tree covered hills. Little by little, the sun went down until I was driving in the long, deep shadows of the trees beneath a milky blue sky dotted with stars. I spent the whole trip kicking myself about everything. Why had I agreed to help? Why had I even gone to the house? Why was I slipping back into my old idiotic habits with Montrose? I knew he was bad news. I knew all demigods were bad news. Why was I bothering with all of this nonsense again?

About halfway down the main road to the city, I found myself in the thickest part of the forest. The trees reached out about the road, making an archway of branches. Thanks to the wind, old green leaves dropped down like raindrops, making little thuds and clinks as they hit the Hornet. The steady beams of the headlights lit the empty road before me, and I just cruised along mindlessly.

I'd bet you anything that if you saw the thing that was standing in the middle of the road, you would have screamed your lungs out. And to be honest, I panicked a little myself at first. But that's because I was driving pretty fast, it was dark and when I first saw it, and I could only make out its shadow. It could have been a bear or something, so I slammed hard on the breaks. The Hornet jolted to a stop, and I felt my stomach trying to make it's escape. I blinked a couple of times and looked up.

It stood about six or seven feet away from the grill of the car and looked for all it's life like a figment of my imagination. But I knew better. The bottom half of its body coiled beneath it, like the thick tail of a python. It writhed, twisted and fell over itself in an enormous nest of snake flesh. The top half of its body looked like a human man, except with scales and a pair of extra arms. No doubt a grandson of Echidna by way of the Colchian Dragon.

I reached into the glove box and pulled out my small revolver - a Smith & Wesson Model 42. Light, compact, reliable, with a unique round of bullets. And to think, I almost left it at home.

Slowly, I stepped out of the car. I left the driver side door open so that, if I needed to, I could duck behind it and use it for cover. It probably wouldn't last very long, but time would be time. The leaves crunched beneath my feet, and the wind was colder than I was expecting. Beneath the rustle of the trees was a soft rattling sound that froze me up a little. Like somebody shaking a bag of bones. I shook off my nerves, rolled my shoulders back and stood across from the monster. For a long while, nothing passed between us except silence.

"Spare yourself the humiliation of attempting to use such a pitiful weapon upon me." The snake man said, and it sounded like it had two voices. One spoke with a low dry rattle that matched the ominous sound still filling the night air. The other voice, the louder of the two, was a rusty hiss. More human, but still not human enough. It folded its upper arms across its chest and swayed and circled upon its tail.

"Pitiful nothing. Ask me about the bullets. I dare you." I pointed the gun at his head.

He didn't ask me about the bullets.

"I have not come to bring harm," He said, "But to advise you."

"How friendly," I said, keeping the gun on him, "Next time send a telegram and we'll meet at a little café I know. You can tell me about the stock market."

"I have little patience for this task and less even for you. Do not test me, child of the poppy fields. I will undo you." He finished with a sharp unhappy hiss, and folded his other set of arms. No doubt for some added dramatic flair.

I decided to remain unimpressed.

"If you pursue this, you condemn yourself and those you care for. Leave it be, or I shall return."

"Now, wait a minute," I took the gun off of him, "Are you telling me that my best course of action is to let the moon collide with the earth? Really? Because, like it or not, you live on the earth too, pal."

"You do not know of what you speak. Serve yourself and leave the matter be." He said the last part with a particular kind of bite.

"Fine. Serving myself won't be too big a change in habit."

The wind kicked up with a fierce chill that I could feel stinging my skin through my clothes. It started tossing the leaves up higher off of the road. At first, I didn't notice what was really happening, but then the leaves began to wrap up and around the snake man in a cyclone. The force of the wind became so unbearably strong, I shielded my eyes with my hand. The leaves whipped into my legs and I could hear them smacking against the car, like hailstones on a tin roof and my hands felt like they were turning to ice.

Then it all stopped.

I knew I would be alone even before I looked up.

It was just me, the rustling leaves, the Hornet and the yellow headlamps shining on an empty road.

I was grateful that everything was over as I pulled the heavy door shut behind me and sat, motionless, behind the wheel for ten minutes or so. I did nothing but stare ahead into the deepening darkness. Maybe waiting for the next thing. Maybe just trying to forget it all. My hand started to feel heavy, and when I glanced down at it I was almost surprised to find that I was still holding my gun. Tightly. It took me another minute before I was willing to put it back in the glove box.

It's a nasty habit of mine to go a little catatonic after unpleasant things happen to me.

When I finally got my head back, I pulled a compact mirror out my handbag on the passenger seat. I pinned my hair back into place and powdered my nose. There wasn't any reason for it except to make me feel a little better. The vicious wind had done a number on me, and I looked like something the cat had brought home from the dump. I snapped the compact shut and put it away.

There were two options. I could go back to Santa Rosa, to the house on Circadian, and check on Montrose and Dorothy and Ezra. It was likely that if I was getting a visit from something unpleasant, so were they. And, since the three of them were in deeper than I was, it was pretty likely they wouldn't be getting off with just a warning. My other option was to head home and try to forget about everything. Just pick up my life where I left it off and pretend like the day had never happened.

I had no excuses. I was right in between the two places, no nearer or further to either.

I turned the key in the ignition and drove straight on to San Francisco.

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_A/N: Ta-da! So ends chapter three. I would greatly appreciate a review from you, since you made it this far. What do you like? What don't you like? What do you think will happen next? Did you hate it? It's okay if you hated it. Just tell me._


	4. Memories That Flutter Like Bats

_A/N: Oooh, I'm getting popular! I guess perseverance was a good choice. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I honestly appreciate it beyond words._

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I lived in a nice little apartment in a brown building on a street that never stopped moving. The hustle and bustle of the city, the racket and din of action, made hiding from things a very simple matter. Just stay inside for a couple of days and let good old San Francisco do the work for you. The building itself was a relic from just after the 1906 earthquake. It was tall, narrow and likely to kill somebody if it ever caught fire. There was no elevator, either.

Once I'd hiked my way up to the fifth floor, remembered the tricky parts of unlocking a door and fallen face-first onto my sofa, I got to feeling pretty lousy. I let out a groan that only my cushions heard, sat up and grabbed the telephone off of a side table. My conscience is a little hard to find, but it's there. It seems to work on a slow fuse, so that I only really get around to regretting my decisions once there's no longer any hope of reversing them. There's a constant struggle between my desire for self-preservation and my moral compass.

The operator asked for the number I wanted and so I told her. It took a minute to connect the call, and I was relieved to hear Dorothy's slightly confused voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Dorothy, it's Carol. Is everything alright on your end?" The minute I said it, I started to feel like a fool for calling. Of course they were alright, they'd probably set up all kinds of precautions.

"Well, yes. Why? Did something happen? What happened?" She took on a kind of motherly concern that didn't really suit her. It barely concealed her excitement to hear a story of dangers and thrills. Poor Dorothy really missed out by not being born during more dangerous times.

I told her about my happy encounter on the lonely road. Normally, when you tell you friend that you were beset upon by a horrible monster, said friend would be expected to be less than relaxed. Not bored with the tale. Apparently, Dorothy was the kind of friend who didn't meet expectations.

"All he wanted was to warn you off? He didn't actually do anything?" She almost sounded disappointed.

"No, he didn't do anything. But he didn't seem to like me very much."

"Did you backtalk him?"

"A little."

"Well, there you go," Dorothy said in and I knew she was smiling, "Where are you? Are you alone?"

"I'm at my place. The building has got lots of people, and I'm pretty close to the police station. I oughta be fine. Nothing in its right mind would bother me here. I just wanted to make sure that you three were still alive."

"What's the address?"

"I'm not telling you. Not over the phone. Haven't you heard about all of this wire-tapping? You never know who might be listening."

"Mm-hmm. In that case, I really hope that J. Edgar Hoover enjoys your story about the dragon."

"Me too."

"Good night, Carol," She said, "And pleasant dreams."

There was a click as she hung up her receiver, and then I hung up mine.

The best thing I could think of to do was make myself a cup of lavender tea. I put the kettle on and went over to the little cupboard next to the refrigerator. It was where I kept all of my coffees, teas and herbs. I had to dig around to the find the lavender, it was at the very back. The tea itself always tasted terrible to me, kind of like drinking a bottle of perfume, but it always seemed to do the trick. I drank it slowly while I watched Playhouse 90. The show was about an alcoholic and his wife figuring out that they were destroying their lives. It was pretty good. The thing I enjoy about television has always been watching someone who has a completely different problem than your own and is handling it worse.

When the play was over, I switched off the set and washed my little china teacup in the sink. I left it on a towel on the counter to dry and ducked into the washroom.

If I was being generous, I would say the washroom was as big as a nice filing cabinet. There was a porthole window with a stunning view of a brick wall, and you could wash your hands in the sink quite comfortably if you stood in the bathtub. There wasn't enough room to have both a cupboard and a mirror, so the majority of my toiletries just sat upon the counter. A girl has to have a mirror, even if it's just in case a Gorgon attacks. I was in the process of rubbing cold cream on my face when a blue bottle just left of the faucet caught my eye. It wasn't that it was unusual, or that there was anything remarkable about it. It was just a little blue bottle full of small, round, white pills. My prescribed sleeping medication.

This was to be my first night in a long time without it.

My mother had been a nurse. Her name was Eloise. She worked in a hospital that researched the human brain, some of the ideas they had were crazy. As far as I know, they never did anything that would turn anybody's blood cold. She told me once that they had a big wall of jars full of formaldehyde, and in ever jar was a brain. Some human, some not. And the doctors who worked at the hospital would dissect them for clinical purposes, or something. One doctor was studying the necessity of sleep. A few years before, a German scientist had gone around in New York asking people about how long they slept and when they slept and so forth. He was trying to get a handle on what the function of sleep really was. The research doctor, Dr. O'Banyon, decided to move even further into the realm of sleep. He made it his life's work to investigate the realm of dreams. And my mother assisted him.

I suppose they got married because she was in trouble, and doctors are often too busy to go out and look for love. Dr. O'Banyon cared deeply for my mother, and being a single woman with a baby has never been an easy task. So I grew up as Carol O'Banyon. My mother told stories beautifully, and she seemed to tell them about everything. So much so that I was surprised to find out she had any secrets. Dr. O'Banyon, whom I referred to as Dad, let me run around his laboratory if I was careful. I used to like looking at a map he had of the human brain. It was very colourful, and certain pathways were traced in purple. I'd run my finger along the purple lines, kind of like tracing a maze. I was a pretty happy kid, as far as it goes.

But I never slept normally.

When I was fourteen, my mother became very ill. I remember that she stopped telling stories for awhile, and would sit in her bed all day with books stacked on top of the empty pillow. The whole house smelled like coffee non-stop, because that was the only thing Dad could make. I never got to drink any. I was relegated to milk and sandwiches, unless I snuck out to the drugstore for a soda. One of my big regrets is that I didn't bother getting sad or too worried, because I thought that she would get better.

It was a Tuesday. It was raining, and I was coming home with a bag of groceries. I remember almost knowing it as soon as I touched the doorknob. Just a shadow of a feeling that clung to me.

She never had told me about my real father. I don't even know if she knew who he really was.

I hesitated a little as I switched off the bathroom light and woke up from my memories. I wasn't usually so prone to introspection, but it seemed like I'd spent the better part of that day on it. Probably my years catching up with me.

My bed was soft and welcoming, and I slipped into it like it was a warm bath. I gave a long yawn, closed my eyes and listened to the cars on the street. I was more worn out than I was expecting, otherwise I might have held on longer to the space in between sleep and wakefulness. I always did. The way a little kid holds on the edge of the pool before going under the water. But it was a short battle that night.

Everything got darker and deeper, and the sounds of the streets began to fade away. Even if I wanted to move, it would take more effort than I had to give.

I let go.

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_A/N: If you made it all the way down here, you probably have something to say. So why not review? It'll make both of us feel better._


	5. Makes The Heart Grow Weak

_A/N: Things are about to get mondo trippy. Heads up._

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Imagine a painting of a perfect place. With silver olive trees and a still, shimmering lake like glass. Imagine the grass is the freshest, greenest you've ever seen, and the sky is always perfect crystal blue with fluffy white clouds. And slowly, slowly, slowly, the painting begins to pull you in. The deep, rich scent of the trees begins to fill up your nose, the light on top of the lake begins to dance, the grass is soft and dry beneath your bare feet, and the clouds move listlessly across the sky.

It was the place my father, my real father, had shaped for me as a gift.

I had forgotten how lovely it could be, even if wasn't real.

You see, Hypno is the god of sleep and he has four sons. One of those sons is responsible for shaping dreams, for pulling the strings of the subconscious and creating a journey for the mind to take at night. He has been responsible for the dreams of heroes and kings, the signs of what was and the tales of what will be. Morpheus, he's called.

I walked through the grass and sat beside the lake. If I wanted to, I could spend the whole night there and nobody would ever know. Except me. And in the morning, I would call Dorothy and tell her that I hadn't found anything. That I'd searched and searched but had no luck. There were worse sins than lying, and it would make everybody happy. The dragon wouldn't have to come back, my old friends would be disappointed in the outcome but not in me, and I wouldn't have to do anything but sit in a pretty little olive grove. Nice and easy.

When I was a kid, from the moment I fell asleep to the moment I woke up I would linger in this place. I learned that there were things that I could do, and so I practiced them. Some nights, Morpheus would come from far in the distance and he would smile and ask me about the things I was doing. And, very often, he would just smile and watch me go about my little games. He always seemed so far away, even when he sat right next to me.

It's strange, but I never did find it in me to hate him. I still don't. I just hate the life I wound up with because of him, and maybe that's unfair.

Doctors don't know if certain sleeping medications stop you from having dreams, or stop you from remembering them. And I don't know how it works on other people, but for me they keep me in one place; the dark, quiet blackness of a dreamless night. So I took the pills.

That's probably why it was so hard to see it all again, after so long away. A regret began to pierce my heart as I wondered how many nights Morpheus had come upon this place and found it empty. Maybe I'm just a bad daughter.

I decided that I wasn't going to bail out. I was going to do the simple task that had been asked of me at the house on Circadian. Sure, I was a little out of practice, but it wasn't all that complicated.

Gently, I reached forward and tapped the still water of the lake with one finger. The surface was cold and unusually dry. It wasn't like touching water at all. The lake seemed to get darker, but also clearer. Like looking at something through a pair of sunglasses. There were four or five ruby red goldfish, the ones with the tails like silk, swimming around near the top. The bottom of the lake seemed so far down. Seaweed stood almost lifeless upon the sand below, and above it were millions of tiny lights. Less like stars in the sky and more like angler lights that floated up and down in the water. They were as small as pebbles.

The goldfish swam towards the shore where I was sitting. Once one of them was close enough, I scooped it up with my hands. It splashed in a shallow pool of water inside the cup of my palms.

"The crown of Pandia," I told it. And, carefully, I placed it back into the lake.

It swam, quickly and eagerly, all about the thin dark water. It went up and down, tapping every light that it could. Most of the lights disappeared, but some would get larger and burn brighter. The ones that got the largest began to look like shimmering crystal balls. All of this continued until the goldfish had swam all the depths and edges of the lake, and nothing remained of the lights were the orbs of various sizes.

These were the dreamers whose thoughts dwelt upon the crown.

Simple enough, right? I'd like to take this point to offer advice to any child of Morpheus who may be considering recounting a part of their life: leave out the dreams because you _will_ sound crazy if you don't. Unfortunately for me, in order to tell my story I have to talk about magic goldfish in a scrying glass pond full of dream-spheres. Aren't I so lucky?

Now, everything I've told you about so far can make good sense. Even without the logic of dreams, in which everything seems to be little more than symbols and nonsense. If you've ever come down to the breakfast table with a crazy dream on your mind, you know how difficult it is to explain that stuff. So much of it is a feeling, or an unlocking of knowledge that follows you into the waking world. And as the day wears on, you forget it. It becomes like grasping at a shadow. It's like the ending remains, but the story disappears.

Somehow, after the business with the fish, I would find myself inside the lake. Walking around it, and examining the orbs. It was almost like I wished myself there. And being under that water - inside that water - seemed to be halfway between swimming and floating in the air. It was so comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. I felt as though I belonged nowhere but this place, between the dreams. I've heard tales of the lotus-eaters and I've often wondered if it's a similar sensation. If so, they have my sympathy.

The trick is to always have something to find and something to go back for, or you won't bother with anything. You'll sleep for a hundred years, like Rip Van Winkle or those knights of King Arthur's. I had to find out who might have stolen Pandia's crown, or who could possibly have kidnapped Selene. But if I'd sent out a fish for dreams of Selene, I would have had a much broader list of possibilities. The crown narrowed it down enough for potential success. As for what I was going back for, that's really none of your business.

I swam, so to speak, towards the largest of the glowing orbs. It's size indicated how much time the dreamer was devoting to the subject of my search, so it was the best place to begin.

I wrapped my arms around it, and felt myself almost pulled in two as I became a piece of someone else's dream.

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_A/N: Short, I know. But I split it off from the next chapter - which contains the actual dream that Carol invades. Anyway, the godly parent has been revealed! Did you guess it? Maybe you figured it out last chapter? Are you disappointed? Montrose and normalcy are scheduled to return for chapter 7, for those of you interested. _

_And remember: Not all cool people leave reviews, but all reviews are from cool people…_


	6. Our Shadows Taller Than Our Soul

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers, and everyone who put this on alert or added it to their favorites. It seems like every time I'm just about to give up on this project, somebody drops me a line that makes my day. And now, dear readers, prepare yourself for another chapter of crazy. _

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In the middle of the room, a man with no mouth was tied to a chair.

I didn't recognize him, and I didn't care for the dream. It felt claustrophobic, tense and fearful - a nightmare. The room we were in looked like it was made of old, warped wood that had been bleached grey by an unforgiving sun. The pale floor curled up along the back wall and onto the ceiling. The other three walls felt like they were moving, pulsing in and then out again. Like being trapped in the lungs of a whale. If they were made of wood. Which, I will concede, they generally are not. It seemed as though the room was lit by a flickering fire, dim orange shapes lapped against the inconsistent space. And there was a loud, rhythmic beat. Not like a heart, but the ticking of a clock.

The man in the chair had dark, crew cut hair. His eyes were deep set and tired. He was tall and powerfully muscular, like the heroes of old. He was also naked, but I wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. The chair he sat upon looked like it had grown out of the floor, and was rooted in it like a tree. A flat red ribbon wrapped around his body like the stripes of a candy cane and bound him in place. There was a sense that the ribbon was heavier than it looked. Tougher, like a chain for an anchor. His eyes were chestnut brown with long, feminine lashes that reminded me of a horse's eyes.

It took him a while to notice me.

_You have to get out of here_.

A pendulum, a giant pendulum like you see inside a grandfather clock, swung suddenly behind him. It was almost too large for the room, and the walls stretched to accommodate its swing. When it swung backwards, the flat golden disc had changed to a rusty axe blade.

"It's alright," I said as soothingly as I could, "You're just having a nightmare. It's alright."

I was never myself inside a dream. That is, I never looked like me. The surroundings changed my form, camouflaged me so that I suited the world I entered. In this particular case, I couldn't shake the impression that I was some sort of spider.

_You don't understand. It's coming back. _

The walls tightened like a vice, with a groaning creak.

"It doesn't matter. I want to know who you are."

_I can't keep doing this. It wasn't supposed to be like this_.

A loud crash, something between a clap of thunder and the barking of hounds. The pendulum swung once more.

"Who are you?" I tried again.

_I don't trust him. It's all falling apart. I can't help you. I've forgotten how to be the things that I am meant to be. It's coming back._

_It's coming back._

It wasn't working. The nightmare was blocking too much of him off. It even began to effect me. I was feeling edgy, panicky. Like something really was coming. A hand seemed to wrap around my heart, and the ticking grew louder and louder still.

"Did you steal the crown of Pandia?"

My breath was shallow. I couldn't stand how close the walls were; I wanted to smash them apart.

_Did I?_

_Yes. Yes I stole it. I took it away. It was me, me, me. It was me, wasn't it?_

He wasn't lying, so much as answering in the abstract. I could tell that he hadn't personally taken it, but somehow felt responsible for it's being gone. He knew what was happening and, more importantly, why everything was happening. But he was taking too long to answer me.

I wanted to leave.

"What is your name?"

The sound came again. The crash.

It was closer.

Something was coming. Something big, dangerous and cruel. Something neither of us could fight.

_You have to leave._

_You have to leave, I won't do it again. I promise._

_I wish I were wise. Why aren't I wise? _

_You have to leave. It's coming!_

"I want to leave!" I cried, "I can't! I can't go until you tell me your name!"

Why couldn't he just spit it out? There wasn't much time. And the ribbons around me felt like chains. They were too heavy on my little spider's body. They were crushing me.

"Tell me your name!"

The pendulum swung back and forth. Back and forth. Disc to axe and axe to disc. So close I thought it would cut the dreamer in half.

Closer still until I thought it would cut me in half.

Time was running out.

I could hear it's footsteps.

The clock was ticking.

The crash was not thunder, was not hounds, but the sound of agony.

_What had I done?_

What had I done?

_What had I done?_

"Tell me!" I screamed as loudly as I could, "Tell me! Tell me! This place will kill me!"

_I'll tell you. _

_I can't stand more blood. I can't stand more._

"The name! All I want is the name!"

The pendulum came.

The walls were breathing. Sucking the life from me.

It wasn't safe.

It was real. It was all real.

Something was coming.

He said his name.

The pendulum's axe cut through me.

I jolted awake, sitting straight up in my bed. I was breathing like I'd just run a marathon. My hair was damp with sweat, and my heart was trying to pound itself out of my chest. I felt along my stomach and my sides for the cut. It wasn't there. Of course, it wasn't there. It had all been just a nightmare. I felt a little like I was going to be sick.

The room was quiet, save the sounds of a couple of cars driving on the street below. It was still dark, but dawn was breaking somewhere far away. The light was cold and sleepy. My covers were all tangled up at my feet. My heart started to slow down. My eyes were sticky with tears. I wiped them on the back of my hand and took a deep, shaky breath.

That hadn't been a hell of a lot of fun.

The floor was icy cold beneath my bare feet as I stepped out of bed. I grabbed the little red alarm clock and peered at the hands in the weak morning light. Five-thirty. Too early to have gotten enough sleep, too late to go back to bed. Not that I particularly wanted to sleep again. In fact, just then, I would have been content to stay awake for the rest of my life.

I made my way to the bathroom. My hand shook as I turned the silver knob of the faucet. I splashed some cold water in my face, and dried it off with a fluffy blue towel. I held the towel at my chin as I gave my reflection a long, steady look.

The dreamer had told me his name, hadn't he?

I said it aloud to myself, just to be sure I was remembering it right:

"Pavlos."

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_A/N: I really, really struggled writing this chapter. I'm not very surreal by nature, so coming up with the dreamscape and nightmare were a lot of work. My dreams are usually in the vein of me and a duck in a top hat riding a roller coaster while we drink tea. I tried to convey the descent into the nightmare while keeping the prose dreamlike and vague. It's really difficult, I find, to work that balance. I'm glad I did it because it was so challenging. Anyway, I know I don't usually talk about my methods but whatever. The story's plot - which is very fluid - originally had quite a few of these dream sequences planned. I don't think I'll be going that way now that I've done this. I hope it was good._

_Phew._

_Leave a review, please._


	7. Back With Your Head In The Clouds

_A/N: Back to my strengths. I hope you enjoy this chapter! _

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After a quick shower, I found that my stomach was rumbling. It stood to reason, I'd skipped dinner the night before. A combination of my nerves and a bad memory for the subject, I guess. Whenever I find myself particularly busy, the first thing to get shot are my eating habits. There was a twenty-four hour diner not far from my building, and I didn't see too much appeal in hanging around the apartment just then. I decided to go, even if it was a little early. That and the only things in my fridge were a jar of mustard and a very dubious cheese sandwich.

I threw on my coat and grabbed my handbag.

In the hallway, leaning against the wall next to my door, was a crumpled lump of a person with wavy brown hair. It seemed to be asleep. I thought I recognized it, so I gave it a gentle kick. When it had finished unfolding itself and straightened its clothes a little, it turned out to be Montrose. A very dishevelled, somewhat dull version of Montrose, but a version of him nonetheless.

He gave me a crooked smile while he ran a hand through his hair, and rolled his shoulders back a couple of times. There were dark circles under his eyes, too much pink on his cheeks, and plenty of wrinkles in his suit.

"Nice hallway you got here, honey," His voice was hoarse, "One of the finest I've ever slept in."

"You been here all night?"

"More or less." He cleared his throat.

"Why didn't you knock on the door, you idiot? I've got a sofa, you know."

"It was about one o'clock by the time I got here, and I figured you were asleep. I was worried about interrupting your process," He closed one eye while he yawned into his fist, "Any luck?"

"Too much," I told him, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Nothing less than protecting you from dragons. Dorothy told me what happened, and I decided that you might need somebody to sleep on your doorstep."

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket and tapped one out.

I fought the impulse to feel flattered. I wasn't going to let him turn me into any sort of damsel in distress. And I certainly didn't care for the idea of him loitering around my hallway, thinking of himself like some grand paladin when he was acting no better than a bum. I could have slapped him.

"How'd you find me? Dorothy doesn't know where I live."

"You're in the city directory." He laughed at me a little, lighting up.

I wondered what I'd been doing for brains my whole life.

"I'm going to get some breakfast, are you coming along? I could let you inside and you could sleep a little more if you wanted to." I had my keys in my hand, and it was all a matter of knowing what side of the door he wanted to be on when I locked it.

He gave a thoughtful puff of smoke and asked:

"Are you going to a place with coffee?"

"Sure. And they keep it warm and everything."

"I'd better go along. In case of dragons. I'd feel lousy as hell if I was napping on your couch while some monster killed you." He decided with a nod.

"That and you want some coffee."

"That and I want some coffee."

The diner was close enough that we could walk, but I knew that he was tired so I asked if he wanted to take my car. He said no, so we walked. It was colder that morning than it had been all week, and a thin mist had curled in from the harbour. I found myself wishing that I had the sense to have put on a pair of gloves. It was pretty quiet. Only a couple of cars went past us, and most of the shops wouldn't bother opening until eight or nine o'clock. The only thing worth listening to were our own footsteps, and there was a warm bakery smell that lasted half a block. We didn't talk much, which was nice. There was a little bit of peace between us that reminded me of long ago times. Happier times full of adventure and promise.

I realized that I'd missed him.

I glanced over at him and noticed that he was smiling. It wasn't the rakish smile he used gave people, but a little one that barely curled the corners of his mouth. He took a deep breath and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"This is a nice time of day, huh?"

"Yeah."

The diner was one of those neon and chrome joints that caters largely to the truckers who come up from Los Angeles. It was preferably to having to bump elbows with the greaser crowd and all of their hotrod red vinyl. When Montrose swung the glass doors open, a beautiful smell of black coffee flooded out followed by the sound of sizzling bacon. It was perfect.

Inside was mostly empty, except for a couple of guys at either end of the counter. They looked like they wanted to be left alone, and we were happy to oblige them. We took a booth next to the window. The table had a gouge in its top, and the stuffing in the cushions was worn down, but I didn't care. Everything was still perfect.

The waitress came over. She was a blonde who'd done her hair like Marilyn Monroe's and left an extra button on her shell pink blouse undone. A wad of bubblegum snapped between her teeth, and I wondered what kind of person chewed gum at six in the morning. She smiled a white, toothy smile at Montrose while she handed us our menus.

"Hi, honey," He said to her, "Could I get a cup of coffee?"

"Of course!" She beamed, "Would you like cream and sugar?"

"Yes to the cream, no to the sugar. I'm sure anything gets sweet enough once it's been held by you."

Then she giggled.

And I wanted to slap him again. While I ordered eggs, toast and a glass of orange juice for myself, I briefly entertained the idea of throwing his damn coffee in his damn face. I decided that he wasn't worth the effort. Most people mature a little if you leave them alone for a couple of years. Not Montrose. He was still the same narcissistic, lecherous son of a bitch he'd always been. Why did I waste so much time thinking about him? I was wrong before. I hadn't missed him one single bit.

"So how'd the dreaming go? Learn anything important?" He asked, once we were all sorted out.

"Drink your coffee." I suggested.

He seemed a little taken aback. Maybe my tone had been a little more venomous than what I'd been shooting for.

"Hey, what gives?"

"The dreaming went fine. I got a lead." I said coldly, as I pushed my eggs around with my fork.

"You know, you didn't used to be this moody. You've changed a little."

"Yeah? Well you haven't changed a bit. Now drink your coffee so that we can get out of here." I looked him square in the eye and remembered that he had changed. I saw that look in his eyes again, the one that said to ask him no questions about where he'd been.

"Cool it," He said sternly, "Just cool it. You're acting like a sulky little kid and I'm not going to go along with it. There's too much for us to do for me to have to puzzle you out every time I need a little information. So tell me about the lead."

"It was a nightmare."

"Was it scary?" He joked.

"No." I lied.

I told him where I'd been and what I thought it all meant. The dreamer was trapped, probably double-crossed, time was running out on something, a bad deal gone bust. I told him what little I'd discovered about the crown and that our best bet was to find the dreamer.

"Do you know who it was?" He asked, after thinking about it all.

"Sure," I drained the last of my juice, "Pavlos Yepanchin."

I was expecting him to gasp, or maybe snap his fingers like it had been obvious all along, but he didn't do any of that. He didn't even answer. He was looking at something just over my shoulder. I twisted around, but there was nothing there but a silent jukebox. Montrose looked at me carefully and softly asked:

"Did you see it?"

"There's nothing to see," I answered him, "Are you okay?"

"We need to go." He fumbled around for his wallet.

"Yeah, sure." I nodded, trying not to sound quite as worried as I felt.

Montrose had a good track record of knowing when trouble was on the way. He had a sense for it, like he could pick up on some wavelength just beyond everybody else's reach. I never asked him for details about how he knew, but I'd learned to trust his hunches. It had saved our skins once or twice, in a serious sort of way. So as soon as he slapped a ten dollar bill on the table - plenty more than he needed to - we practically ran out of that place.

I silently cursed at myself. I'd left my gun in the glove box of the Hornet. I didn't know about Montrose, but I was pretty much defenceless. If we didn't make it back to my place fast, we were sitting ducks.

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_A/N: Thanks for sticking with me this long, I hope you've been enjoying it! This chapter was certainly more natural for me to write than the last two, probably because it takes less imagination…_

_I'd really enjoy it if you left me a review. I mean, you made it all the way to the end of chapter seven. Might as well pipe up, right?_


	8. Vengeance That He Will Soon Unfurl

_A/N: Boy, have I ever been swamped. It feels like it took me a lifetime to sit down and write this next chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Shout-outs to Winnefred and Faraday for reviewing. You guys are awesome-sauce. _

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I'll admit it. I made a bad call.

The sun was starting to peek over the tall buildings of the city, and the misty seaside air was being replaced with a drier summer sweetness. It would have been a really nice day, if not for the crushing sense of impending doom. We must have looked like we were late for something, with our worried expressions and the way we were hurrying along. Somewhere between a walk and a run. I was wearing high heels, and just about the only thing on my mind was making sure I didn't break my ankle before we got to Laguna Street.

Neither of us was in the mood to make a plan, not that it would have made much of a difference. It was unclear what dangers were behind us, and what might lie ahead. Any plan would likely hinder us, block our natural battle reflexes. But we did briefly run through our advantages, and the gear we had.

It wasn't an ideal situation.

Montrose had a breastplate on beneath his shirt, which was actually a little impressive because you couldn't tell by looking at him. And it meant that he'd slept in the thing, which would have been uncomfortable even if he hadn't been slumped against a wall the whole time. I later found out from him that it was no less than the armour of Hector, and he had arranged for it to be reforged by a son of Hephastus. With the specific intention of making it look good under a suit. Feel free to roll your eyes.

As for weapons, there was my revolver - which was two blocks away and locked in a car, and Montrose's charm and wit. He generally favoured spears, but had opted not to bring one the night before. I couldn't fault the decision. It was hard not to notice the guy wandering around at one o'clock in the morning with a spear. So, it seemed to me that our best bet was to get to the Hornet.

"I don't like it," Montrose decided, starting to get winded, "We should go to my car, and just drive straight to Santa Rosa."

"No. Right now, I'm a street away from my gun. If we go to Santa Rosa, I'll be a town away from it."

"They've got guns all over California, Carol. I'll buy you a new one."

You may recall, from my encounter with the dragon, that the important thing was not the weapon itself. It was the ammunition. I'd gone on a quest for that, and I was determined not to leave it behind.

"What have you got in _your_ car, huh? A hula girl on the dashboard and a carton of Luckies?"

We stood still for a second, and turned to face one another. I watched his eyes try to make a decision. I put a little steel in my own gaze.

I should have just gone with him. We should have left the gun, left the bullets, left the Hornet and never looked back. But that's not what happened. I charged straight for the little side alley where I'd parked, and Montrose had two options. Follow me, or don't. And even though he's an absolute heel ninety percent of the time, he tries pretty hard not to let anybody get killed.

The Hornet was just as I'd left it, backed in alongside a teal Pontiac Bonneville in front of a brick wall and some steel garbage cans.

But that wasn't everything in the alley.

A man in a sharkskin suit was leaning against the hood of the Hornet, flipping a coin. We stopped dead when we saw him. He had a pair of yellow eyes that watched us from underneath low pulled fedora. At first, I thought the coin was a silver dollar, but it became obvious after a couple more flips that it was an obolus. A thing sort of like an ancient Greek quarter. The hand that flipped it was wide and beefy, with dark red hair on the knuckles. The face that smiled at us was no prettier. There was a flat, upturned nose that looked like it had been smashed once or twice by a dinner plate; and a mouth that sneered a little bit, showing off half of the teeth. The chin was strong and square, and had a dark mole just beneath the lips.

I'd never seen him before. I would have remembered if I had - it wasn't the kind of ugly you forget.

"It's a lovely day, don't you think?" He said with a thick Southern accent, as the coin caught the morning sun in the air.

"Sure," I said in as friendly a tone as I could muster, "But that's my car, mister, and we need to get in it."

"Runnin' away from something?"

"How many people you know make a break in broad daylight? We've got a brunch date, and I would simply hate to be late." I took a step or two towards him, but Montrose grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back.

"What's the matter, boy? Afraid of lettin' the little lady get too close?" The stranger smiled a long, greasy smile. The kind that makes you want to take a shower.

"I'm the jealous type," Montrose replied dryly, "I know I've got the personality, but you've got the looks."

The smile fell off of the stranger's face.

He moved towards us, still flipping that coin of his; and I felt Montrose's hands tighten on me. I knew that if things started to go south, he would valiantly throw me out of the path of danger. So that I would likely land on the fire hydrant. My pal Galahad.

"I've been lookin' forward to this tussle," The stranger said to Montrose, "I've heard mighty impressive things about you. They call you the prince of ghosts, and say it was you that slew my brother down in Puerto Escondido. I wouldn't mind seeing you die."

It checked out. I'd heard word that Montrose had been down in Mexico for awhile, six or seven months ago. And it was likely he killed some monster who was related to another monster. He was a natural chaos magnet. Look what happens when you try to take him out for breakfast.

"And you, daughter of Morpheus, were warned not to interfere."

"Who says I interfered?" I scoffed, "Maybe I was trying to get the prince of ghosts to stay out of it, too. Maybe I was telling him all about your pal the snake-man and old country roads. Maybe we were about to get in my car, drive to Arizona and start a new life as cactus farmers…"

"We have eyes all over the place, little lady," The stranger chuckled, "We know when you've been dreamwalkin'. I just need you to tell me who you visited, is all."

This caused a chill to run down my spine. Dreams are a kingdom separate of the earth, the heavens and the underworld. They aren't visible to the gods, save those with dominion over them. Someone had watched my dream, but could not follow me into someone else's. And there was only one being who matched those abilities.

"Tell me, and I'll let you live."

"What about Montrose? Will you let him live, too?"

"Now, that's a different matter. The poor boy's made all kinds of trouble for himself, and nobody can just let him go. There ain't a single guarantee he won't just mess everything up again. Besides which, I've got a little vengeance comin' my way. As I said, he killed my brother. But you're a different story; word is that you've got a coward's heart in you. You tell me the name, and you get to crawl back into your quiet little life. All this'll fade away."

I knew that's what his answer was going to be. I turned and backed away from Montrose, watching him closely. His mouth was a sharp, thin line that gave away no emotion; but his eyes were sparkling like chandeliers. He said:

"That's alright, honey. I suppose it was just a matter of time before I got both feet in the grave."

The coin stopped flipping. It had been such a constant motion, the slight sound it made and the way it moved up and down in the air. It seemed incredibly ominous when it stopped. And that's because it was.

"I've got plenty of patience, but I don't like to play the fool," The stranger said with a disdainful snort, "How will you die, Philip Montrose? Call the coin."

I swallowed hard, and looked at Montrose. What was I supposed to do? My instincts told me to go for the car, try to get the gun and maybe start the engine. But the tension had built considerably. I didn't know what the nature of our new friend was, and how dangerous he could be. Montrose glanced over at me, and the sparkle in his eyes had given way to an expression I had seen upon him only once before. It was the instruction to run, at all costs, and leave him behind.

I had ignored it the first time, too.

"Heads." Montrose said.

The stranger lifted his hand and looked at the outcome.

"Tails." He said with a deep, unfriendly chuckled.

And that's when everything really went to hell.

I watched, in a sort of terrified numbness, as the stranger transformed. The shadows - on the walls, on the street, in the corners we couldn't see - trickled towards his feet like a river of tar. They slipped off of bricks and streaked the buildings with oozing darkness; and as they arrived at the stranger, they wrapped around him like vines and coated his form. Until, at last, he was a dark silhouette in the alleyway. And the darkness grew about him, shifting and moulding to some new shape. I heard the sickening splinter of bones, and a muffled sort of gurgling sound that evolved into low, animal grunts. The darkness began to take on the shape of some massive beast, and I looked to Montrose with terror in my eyes. His face was stern with the determination of the ancient heroes that shared his blood, his form tense and ready for battle. He nodded quickly to the car, and all of a sudden I remembered that I had legs as well as eyes.

I stopped watching the hideous form of darkness and made my move. I decided there wasn't sufficient time to mess around with unlocking the door. With a deep breath, I smashed the passenger window with my elbow. There was nothing between me and the broken glass but the thin cloth of my summer jacket. It hurt like hell, and I was bleeding a little. On top of which, I loved the Hornet. Breaking the window was like breaking my own heart. I reached into the car and opened the glove box, felt around carefully for the gun and lifted it out. Quickly, I checked the chamber. Six bullets. Everything was in order.

Whatever came out of those shadows, I was ready for it.

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_A/N: Since it's the end of a chapter, I'd like to remind you to review. If you're new to the story, have been following it since the start, or just skipped to chapter eight for no reason, I'd simply love it if you left me some feedback. Don't leave commenting in the hands of others! The only way to ensure your voice is heard is to press the button and tell me what you think! _


	9. I Could Not Run Away It Seemed

_A/N: My long awaited return! Thanks for… awaiting!_

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Not many people in this world can say that they've seen a lot of the things I've seen. I've looked into dreams and nightmares, stared into the faces of the gods, beheld the forms of centaurs, satyrs and nymphs. And I've watched a man transform into a giant boar in the glamorous city by the bay.

As the shadows began to melt away from the human form of the stranger, I'd aimed my gun at it and was about a breath away from firing. But Montrose had called out, with fire and urgency, and stopped me cold.

"It's no good! Wait!"

"I've got the shot!" I protested, holding my gaze on the shifting form between us.

It was a massive beast, as tall as Montrose and as wide as a beer truck. It had a pair of yellowing tusks that jutted out and curved upward, with sharp and deadly points. It had a blood red snout, flat and wrinkled and flaring beneath the same pair of gluttonous yellow eyes of its human form. The body was heavy with muscle and fat, low to the ground on four stocky, powerful legs. And if we hadn't been demigods, the tremendous odour likely would have killed us on the spot. It's body was covered in coarse red-brown hair, and its heavy hooves seemed like they could crack the pavement open with one stomp.

The boar snorted. It was a disgusting sound, thick and wet.

"Aim for the head."

I was more than ready to follow those instructions, but the boar itself had a different opinion of what was supposed to happen. It charged suddenly towards Montrose, who deftly rolled out of its path - the breastplate beneath his clothes clattering against the street. The boar slid to halt, turning a little sideways as it did. It's body crashed into a street lamp and bent it, so that it looked like an iron tree, twisted and uprooted by a storm.

I took a deep breath, and fired just as the boar scraped its hoof along the street. The ground rumbled, just like an earthquake, and the shot went astray. The bullet shattered the front window of a dress shop across the street, and I fell to the ground. There was a sound like somebody dragging furniture across the street, and I looked up to see the hideous boar making another charge for Montrose.

"No!" I screamed out, without a second thought as Montrose barely got away. The tusk scraped against his back, revealing the metallic shine of his breastplate amidst his newly torn suit.

I stood back up and got the worst idea of my life.

While Montrose continued to evade the attacking creature, I reached through the broken window of the Hornet, unlocked the passenger door and slid over to the driver's seat. There was a spare key I kept hidden underneath the visor for emergencies. I grabbed it and fired up the ignition. The car roared to life beneath me, and I could smell the burn of the tires as I floored it out of the alley and onto the main street.

I drove as fast as I could away from the fight.

In the rear-view mirror, I caught a glimpse of Montrose. He had grabbed a shard of broke plate glass from the shop window I'd busted, and was taking a stab at the boar. A sound like some kind of primal, blood-curdling scream echoed down the streets, and I knew that he'd struck true.

Figuring I finally had enough distance, I pulled a bootlegger's turn in the middle of Laguna and drove like I was leaving the Underworld - straight towards the boar. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. There was no way that this _wasn't_ going to wreck my car, and maybe kill me.

The Hornet collided with enough force to knock the boar on its side; and the hood of the car crunched towards me like somebody was crumpling a sheet of paper. I distinctly recall hearing the sound of the headlights shattering and wanting to weep. But there wasn't any time. One shot to break through the windshield, and another shot clear through the boar's head.

The bullet ripped through the lower half of it's jaw and, presumably, embedded itself in the monster's brain. A pool of blood steadily leaked onto the street, and the short legs twitch for a second or two and then stopped. It was over.

The stillness washed over me like a wave, and I took a deep breath.

"Carol?" I could hear Montrose's voice from far away - so muffled and vague. Like he was talking through a radio. Something warm and sticky was trickling down my face. It felt like hot blueberry syrup. I put my hand to it, and saw that it was red.

"Carol! Stay with me, okay?" Montrose was saying from someplace close, and I could hear a sound like somebody trying to open the car door. Metal was scraping against metal.

A breeze fluttered through the broken windshield. It felt cool and calming against my skin. I let myself slip into darkness, and away from a hazy unfamiliar pain.

"Carol!" He called again, and there was suddenly a pair of hands trying to pull me away.

"Carol…"

And then the darkness was everywhere.

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_A/N: Quite short, but I'm trying to get back into the game and it might take awhile for me to get my old rhythm going again. As per usual, I'm going to make puppy eyes for reviews._

_*Puppy Eyes*_

_I'd love to know where you guys see the story headed, what your favourite elements are and - oddly enough - what you like the least. Thanks for reading!_


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